This is not the first time I've ever thought of leaving Joseph, but it is the first time I knew I would really do it; knew it would be forever. How long I sat at my husband's desk, more stunned by than thinking about the ramifications of this, I do not know. I'd not gotten through all the letters when I heard Joseph downstairs.
More accurately, I heard Luanne speaking to "Master Coleman"-she's not yet accustomed herself to "mister." Joseph customarily enters like a stallion chased by the wind, much clatter and fuss. Now he creeps about like the cats he so detests.
Joseph mightn't say anything about my trespass, but once he found the broken lock, anything of interest would be removed. I put the unread letters in my pocket and returned to my bedroom window and my sewing before he reached the top of the stairs. I've become a sneak and a spy. I've planned to abandon my marriage and taken up thieving. If Tilly were here we would laugh at my fall from grace. As it is no one seems to laugh now. Least of all me.
For what remained of the afternoon Joseph sat at his desk in the hall. He must have known I was in our room, but he neither came in nor spoke to me. So still was he several times I went to the door and checked to see if he'd gone. He was just sitting there. If he was working I couldn't tell at what. I pretended to sew until it grew too dark to see, then lit the lamps and pretended to read, waiting till it was late enough I could go to bed and pretend to sleep.
Recent events and the unease in our rooms have infected even Luanne. Just before eight she tiptoed up to see if we wanted a cold supper since I had made no plans with her earlier. With the burden of pretense I'd already taken on, I couldn't bear to pretend to eat, and I sent her away. It occurred to me to ask her to bring something up to Joseph, but at that moment I cared so little for him even this small kindness-or, rather, duty-was beyond me.
After nine I deemed it late enough to go to bed and took the lamp to Tilly's room. Joseph was no longer at his desk. I've taken to sleeping in Tilly's room these last nights. Joseph says nothing and it comforts me to be among her things. I suppose I hope she'll come climbing back through the window one night, flushed and laughing from her adventure.
I didn't undress or lie down but sat in the dark by the window, watching the parade ground empty and go dark. Around midnight I heard Joseph come in and go to our room. Again he never sought me out and I didn't go to him. The longer I sat there the more I knew I couldn't go on doing nothing. Finally I gave up trying. Downstairs I took britches and a shirt belonging to Joseph from Luanne's laundry bag and, back in Tilly's room, put them on.
Melodramatic and absurd as I felt disguising myself, it was necessary. In our tiny world, populated almost exclusively by men, if I were to go outdoors in the middle of the night except to visit the privy I would be noticed. I would not have passed muster for a man if anyone were to study me. I cannot say what it was. As you know I am not made as womanly as you are, and my face has been coarsened by wind and weather over the years, but it was abundantly clear I was a sheep in wolf's clothing. Two thoughts bolstered my courage. One was that in the hive of men, no one would notice one more, however peculiar, and in the middle of the night, I might well never even be seen. The other thought was, should I be found out and returned to Joseph either in person or by report, the sheer effrontery and outlandishness of my crime might shake him into a semblance of his former self.
My years here were not wasted. I've seen the watches change nearly a thousand times, heard the hours called. I know where the soldiers sleep and hide, gamble and drink. Having sneaked successfully out of the officers' quarters, I crossed to the unfinished casemates behind the half-built enlisted men's quarters. No one is housed there, prisoner or soldier. There is also no hope of light at night, the new barracks having now grown high enough to block out what the stars provide.
Feeling my way by inches, I came around the parade ground to the sally port and guardroom. I didn't like to risk passing this one place where I could be assured men were on duty and, in all probability, awake-though the country is no longer at war, sleeping on guard duty is still punishable by death. I have noticed officers stomping and whistling when they approach a sentry station at an unexpected hour simply to avoid the possibility of finding the man asleep.
My only other alternative had been to follow the southern side of the parade ground and so avoid the guardhouse altogether. But that is where a bulk of the men and prisoners are housed.
Feeling patently absurd and frightened nearly half to death, I chose to cross the parade ground beneath the hanging trees. Since Sergeant Sinapp's "coming to power" those trees have not stood fallow but are always full of their dreadful harvest. The men tied, their wrists bound behind their backs and ropes thrown over the branches, would be too stupefied by a day without sufficient water and more than sufficient suffering to pay much attention to me and, should they call out, their cries would go unanswered by the guards.
Seven men dangled in the night branches. Joseph is a proponent of corporal punishment-it's necessary to retain order with men-but always ends the punishment at sunset. Twelve hours a day is not adequate for the cruelties Sinapp feels compelled to commit.
As I passed, several men roused themselves to call out for water, but I kept my face turned away and only walked faster. Fear kept me from feeling the guilt that assails me now for refusing this small service. At the time I was so terrified their pathetic croaks did little more than make me hurry on.
It's odd that I was so much more afraid than I had been the night Tilly and I went out before our theatrical evening to see who screamed so achingly. Partly it was that I was alone this time-I have been horribly alone since Tilly disappeared. Partly I think it was that Fort Jefferson no longer feels safe. With Joseph's protection removed and Sergeant Sinapp having his way in everything, I believe I could come to harm. Mostly, though, it was fear of the humiliation I would suffer were I discovered out adventuring at night in my husband's soiled clothing. One might think it would be a little thing, but it was not.
Safely (if cravenly) past the sally port I slipped back into the darkness beneath the casemates and made my way toward the southeastern bastion and the dungeon. In the absolute darkness behind these thick walls I had to make my way by touch. With light to see by the trip is short. Without it, I believed I might go on forever, feeling the ends of my fingers growing raw from trailing over rough walls.
So much time seemed to pass I thought I'd surely missed the dungeon. When I finally came into the vaulted area where it is located, I knew it by the change in the sounds my feet made shuffling across the brick. What had been close, furtive noises became amplified and scared me before I realized I was still the only one making them. And there was the smell of fresh mortar and brick dust where the men had been sealing up the entrance to the cisterns beneath this section of the battlements.
There is a small barred window in the dungeon's door-the kind in the ink drawings that used to give us delicious shudders when we were children, the kind through which the hero sees the ogre. By standing on tiptoe I could get my mouth to the opening. At first I could make no sound. Fear and silence and a day where I spoke to no one but those few words to Luanne robbed me of my voice. When I finally managed to whisper Dr. Mudd's name it sounded like a shout in my sensitized ears and frightened me into a few more moments of speechlessness. After that, not knowing what to expect, I kept repeating his name.
No response came for the longest time and I began to fear this whole masquerade had been for nothing, that Dr. Mudd had been moved again and the dungeon stood empty. I suppose I would have given up and gone away, but I had no other plan so I stayed whispering and calling far longer than a sane woman might have.
My persistence was rewarded. From inside the cell a light was struck, just a flint then a candle, to my wide eyes it was a conflagration. For a minute lights swam and starred. The candle was held up and I saw I had indeed found Dr. Mudd.
Despite his straightened circumstances-if being reduced from a cell with little light to
one with no light and a bed of wooden planks to a stone floor can be dignified with the term "circumstances"-the doctor slept in nightshirt and cap. With his one blanket thrown around his shoulders for modesty he managed, but for the cap, to look almost dignified.
I introduced myself. The look of disapproval that screwed up his lips-or so I imagined, all I saw of it was the twitching of his overlong mustache-made me glad he couldn't see the rest of me. Once he'd grasped I was a woman in flesh and not a dream or ghost, he asked me to look away. When I looked back he was dressed even to his coat and shoes.
Having nothing to lose, as there are few at the fort more powerless and ignorant than I, and nothing to fear from him as a bolted door stood between us, I told him I'd found the notes he'd sent summoning Tilly.
"You sent her a note the night she disappeared, Dr. Mudd. It was wrapped around a bit of broken brick and thrown through her open window. She has been gone for more than three days. You must tell me why you asked her to your cell in the night and where you have sent her."
He turned from me like a man gazing out of a window but he had only brick and more brick to look at. I was close to a screaming fit. I could see myself shaking the bars, shrieking like a madwoman, as guards with torches pounded down the passages to find me. Had I been able to unlock the prison door I believe I would have, just to feel my fists strike Dr. Mudd's face.
Fortunately he turned back before I lost my wits. "Where is she?" I demanded.
"I don't know."
"You sent her the notes," I said.
"Some of them, yes. Not the last one."
He sounded reasonable, tired and sad and reasonable. It made me even angrier because I didn't want to believe him. For a minute-a very long time in the night-I said nothing. Were I to speak, I should have frothed at the mouth like a rabid dog. When I'd regained a modicum of control, I asked him who sent the last note.
"I don't know."
My temper frayed to snapping. "Tell me what you do know, Dr. Mudd, or may God damn you to hell!" Not only was I taking the Lord's name in vain but I was spitting. I could see flecks of my saliva where they caught in the candlelight beyond the bars separating us.
"Very well, Mrs. Coleman. With your sister gone, I doubt it much matters now. Though I believe your being here tonight endangers both of us. I shall tell you what I know, then you must leave. If you return I will not speak to you. If you repeat what I have told you I will deny it."
Much as I hated this cold dictation of what I must and must not do, I held my tongue. I believed him when he said he would never again speak with me. I would not call Dr. Mudd a man of honor, but he seems to be possessed of an iron will.
"Your sister believed in my cause," Mudd began, and I knew I was to be forced to hear again of his innocence. "Do you know what a doppelganger is, Mrs. Coleman?"
"I know." Either he didn't believe me or he was enjoying the condescension. I didn't interrupt. A man behind bars must wield power however he can.
"A doppelganger is a look-alike, someone who looks exactly like you in every aspect. Some theorize that each man has, somewhere in this world, his own doppelganger. I know I have mine. It was this man and not myself who was seen meeting in Washington with Sam Arnold and with John Booth. It was this man and not I who conspired to assassinate or kidnap the president."
Dr. Mudd had gone as mad as I felt I was at that moment.
He spoke as if he addressed a court of law and not one angry woman dressed in her husband's britches.
"What has this to do with my sister?" I asked and none too politely.
"I was getting to your sister, Mrs. Coleman. Your sister was kind enough or perspicacious enough to believe me. When I came into possession of proof of this, I felt she was the only person at this prison whom I could trust to carry this proof outside to my lawyer. Anyone else within these walls would possibly destroy it, preferring to punish an innocent man than to admit their blessed union had been duped."
The document, the letter, the secret proof. I had come to be sick to death of this game of hints and possibilities. "What did yon give my sister?"
"A photograph of this man who looks like me. He is standing with Samuel Arnold and members of Mr. Arnold's family. A photographer who travels to events where people gather took the picture. The place and date as well as the name of the photographer are on the back of the picture, put there with the man's own stamp. It was taken at a cattle sale held in Richmond, Virginia, several months before John Booth killed Mr. Lincoln. The cattle sale was three days long, days I can prove that I was with a very ill patient more than a hundred miles from where that photograph was taken."
This news staggered me. If it were the truth, then Dr. Mudd was an innocent man and he had put the rest of his life into the hands of a sixteen-year-old girl because none of us could be trusted. Strength left me. Where I had been clinging to the prison bars in anger I now clung to keep from falling. The weariness of the past days caught up to me. If I'd let myself slide to the floor, the guard bringing Mudd's breakfast would have found me still there.
25
Only when air hit her lungs was Anna sure she'd been taken up and not down by the god of her understanding, as AA would have it. Bits of spray entered with the first breath and a fit of coughing alternately racked her then paralyzed her. The upward journey continued. Her arms and legs dangled down; water poured from her. She was flipped over and the powers that be-not gods as she would have pictured them but two heavily armed white guys with the power of life and death-landed her like a witless fish. Goggle-eyed and breathless she stared up at them without even a fish's ability to flop or flounder.
"She's not dead," one of them said. He bent down to peer into her face. Along with his disappointed utterance came a poke in her side from the barrel of his weapon.
Anna'd never seen him before. He was maybe thirty, dark brown hair, chin-length and plastered unbecomingly over a high forehead and sunken cheeks. His flesh had the worn, papery look of a longtime drug user, but his eyes were normal. Either he'd straightened up for the job or was "in recovery" at the moment.
"She sure as hell got Jose," the second white guy said and laughed. He was heftier than the one passing judgment on Anna's lamentable survival, and a good ten years older. Me, too, wore his hair long, but it had grown thin. What might once have held a certain piratical charm was now sad and stringy.
"His name is Rick. For Christ's sake help me. There was to be no killing. This is a goddamn mess."
Anna rolled her eyes. The speaker was William Macintyre, Mack, lean as a whippet, voice angry. The white guys were hired help. Mack leaned over the gunwale, his skinny butt and scarred legs all she could see of him.
"Help me, damn it," he shouted.
The man scrutinizing and prodding Anna straightened up. "Watch her, Butch. She's not dead," he said.
Butch. Maybe thug number one was named Lefty or Spike. Anna felt herself smile. She'd realized a great truth. Life did mirror art. These two had surely patterned themselves after movie bad guys. Probably John Travolta in Pulp Fiction. It made them no less deadly. She thought better about the smile.
Behind Butch, Mack and Thug Number One were hauling in another human catch. The Cuban man Anna had shot at. Rick.
Control was returning to her torso. She was breathing more or less regularly, and the paralyzing blows to her back had morphed from numb to an ache so deep she worried for her spine.
"Butch, I'd like to sit up, if I may," she said. Unarmed in the enemy's camp, it was good to be polite whenever possible.
"I hit you," he said. He sounded annoyed.
"You did," Anna assured him kindly. "Kevlar vest."
He knelt and reached toward her. At first she thought it was to help her to her feet and was about to decide this Miss Manners approach wasn't half bad. Butch, however, wasn't cut of gentlemanly cloth. He punched at her chest, a professional's interest in her vest.
"These things are a lot lighter 'n I remember. Handy. You'll be sore as he
ll."
He seemed to want that, and it was true so Anna gave it to him: "I already am. Feels like my back's busted in two places. Mind if I sit up?"
He held his firearm in his left hand. Up close Anna could see it was indeed an Uzi, an old one manufactured in the late eighties and not kept in mint condition. Probably a hand-me-down or a piece lifted in another job. Across the knuckles of Butch's right hand a crude H and an A had been tattooed. Undoubtedly meant to be "Hate" but would forever read "HA."
"Get paroled before they finished the job?" She nodded toward the aborted chuckle in flesh and ink.
"Yeah. Well..."
"Butch is scared of needles." The younger man said from where he pulled a bleeding Cuban gunman over the side.
"Shut the fuck up, Perry."
Perry. So much for the movies.
"'Ha' is nice," Anna said, but their moment of blossoming rapport had been nipped in the bud.
Nevada Barr - Anna Pigeon 11 - Flashback Page 34
